by Things We Didn't Talk About When I Was a Girl (retail) (epub)
The next morning, the police incident report arrives. I didn’t expect it to arrive so soon. I love this typo: so she made an accuse to leave the room.
According to the report, my principal and guidance counselor told detectives that I was someone who would not lie.
Amber, Heather, and Mark’s sister provided typed statements that the detectives summarized:
On a few occasions [Amber] had overheard [the newspaper advisor] asking Jeannie to come over to his house to work on the paper. . . . When Jeannie would stay late in school working, she asked [Amber] to stay and help, but [the newspaper advisor] would tell [Amber] she could leave.
[Heather] stated that she was present when [the newspaper advisor] had physically touched Jeannie and her. She stated that he has touched her arms, Jeannie’s shoulders and knees, by rubs, pats, or “accidents.” She claims that this occurred when they were working in close proximity to each other. She stated that [the newspaper advisor] would always talk about Jeannie falling short of her duties as editor, to the other students. She claims that Jeannie would have to stay at school late, working either alone or with [the newspaper advisor]. [Heather] recalls that after [the principal] ordered [the newspaper advisor] to stay away from Jeannie, she would see him following her and even attempted to try and talk with her on one occasion. It should be noted that there is nothing in [Heather]’s statement that shows any criminal wrongdoing by [the newspaper advisor].
[Mark’s sister] claims that when [the newspaper advisor] and Jeannie were in a room working alone, the door would usually be closed. She claims that [the newspaper advisor] frequently had his hands on Jeannie’s shoulders while she was working. . . . She also claims that Jeannie would be the only one he would ever ask to stay and work late.
After reading what Amber, Heather, and Mark’s sister told the detectives, I no longer seem so unreliable, or as unreliable as I felt.
But running like a refrain throughout the report: It should be noted that there is nothing in [Jeannie/Heather/Amber/Mark’s sister]’s statement that shows any criminal wrongdoing by [the newspaper advisor].
Garrett, Jake, Carlos, Daniel, and Mark—none of them provided statements. Maybe I didn’t complain to them about my newspaper advisor. Was I afraid of making them aware of what they could become?
I forgot about this: my newspaper advisor agreed to a CVSA test. CVSA: Computer Voice Stress Analyzer. The detective reported that during the pretest interview, [the newspaper advisor] noted Jeannie coming to school late . . .
But I didn’t actually arrive to school late. I simply didn’t go to homeroom because my newspaper advisor was also my homeroom teacher.
. . . Jeannie’s bloodshot eyes and overall physical appearance.
I was applying for college scholarships, studying for Advanced Placement exams, and worrying about my dad’s health. And my newspaper advisor regularly yelled at me, so sure, I wasn’t sleeping well. I probably did have bloodshot eyes. As for my overall physical appearance, what about it?
[The newspaper advisor] felt that he was doing what was in the best interest of Jeannie.
The following two relevant questions were asked of [the newspaper advisor]:
#4 Did you touch Jeannie’s leg in a sexual manner?No.
#6 Did you rub Jeannie’s leg in a sexual manner?No.
He passed the test. But if high stress is an indication of deception, then I can’t imagine ever passing something like that.
If someone had seen my newspaper advisor—no, let’s say filmed him—running his hand up my thigh and between my legs, would the detectives have considered his action criminal wrongdoing? I would hope so. But I’m now remembering when the detectives asked me, Is it possible that his hand slipped? And I had to grant them that. It’s unlikely, but yes, it’s possible. Also, I never thought it possible that a teacher would abuse me the way he did—but if I told that to the detectives, they didn’t note it in their report.
My newspaper advisor still teaches high school students. He’s married and has two daughters now. Does he worry about a teacher treating his daughters how he treated me? I hope so. I hope he worries about it every day.
. . .
HIM: Do you want to—just tell me what you want to do. We can talk.
ME: Occasionally, I’ll check in with you. Maybe at some point I can visit and we can meet in person to talk.
HIM: Yeah, we can grab a coffee or something. That would be great.
ME: Yeah, I think it would be really nice.
HIM: Yeah, it’s tough for me to—I’m basically working six days a week at the moment, so it can be tough for me to find time. But I’ll see what I can do.
ME: Yeah, it’s okay. It would be down the line. I guess I just wanted to see how open you would be to this. I really appreciate it.
HIM: I’m open to whatever you want from me.
ME: Okay.
HIM: Like I said, I owe you that much. Plus, it will, honestly, be really good to see you.
ME: Okay. Well, you have my number. Also, you have my email address. And if anything comes to you, a memory or something, don’t hesitate to email me. Anything like that’s going to be helpful to me. I can let you go.
HIM: Sounds like I should let you go.
ME: Oh no, I just don’t want to keep you. Do you work tomorrow?
HIM: I do, but I’ll be up for hours anyway. No matter what.
ME: Well, thank you again for reading my book. You didn’t have to do that. I’m sorry that it was upsetting, that that was the part you were in.
HIM: No, but who do I have to blame but myself, right?
ME: I’m glad we’re talking, though. So I can tell you: that’s not how I see you.
HIM: I just want to reiterate, it was a treat to read the early sections especially. It was interesting to see how you saw your childhood. Because our relationship with our fathers is so different.
I CAN’T LISTEN TO IT ANYMORE
My dad died my freshman year, after the course withdrawal deadline at Northwestern. This meant that if I dropped my classes, I’d lose my scholarship money for that term. And so I returned to college, which was, according to my mom, what my dad had wanted.
That winter break, I visited Mark’s house. Other friends were there. One of them, whose hamster had just died, said: I hate how you go to college and then everything dies.
I struggled not to glare at her.
Conversation ensued about her hamster.
But then somebody else interjected, mentioned her fish had died. And I thought, Does no one remember that my dad died last month?
Mark then talked about some friends who were growing pot at a cemetery.
That’s messed up, I said.
It’s genius, Mark said.
It’s disrespectful, I fired back.
Mark took off his glasses, pinched his nose, and sighed.
It’s funny, he insisted.
I got up to leave.
Where are you going? Mark’s sister asked.
To the house where my mom lives, I said.
Home? she asked.
No, I said. My dad’s dead. But go on. Talk about the dead hamster and the dead fish and growing pot at a cemetery. I can’t listen to it anymore.
And then Amber said: But Jeannie, you knew your dad was old. He was going to die eventually.
I left without saying goodbye. I drove to my mom’s house. Asleep on the floor where my dad’s hospice bed had been, she was wearing one of his shirts.
The winter break after my dad died—one year before Mark assaulted me—I secured the police reports about my high school newspaper advisor. I drove toward the cemetery and parked near its entrance, on the side of the quiet country road. I sat there in my car, reading the report and crying. Shortly after, I think, I threw them away.
The point is, after my dad died, I let myself cry only about his death. If I cried about something else, such as my sleazy advisor, then I needed to relate it to my dad. And what better way to do that than
to cry at (or at least near) the cemetery? By the time Mark assaulted me, I was too focused on grief for my dad. Sexual assault became an inconvenience, something I worried therapists would latch on to—which is why I never talked about it, or if I did, I’d say things like, A close friend sexually assaulted me, but that’s not what I’m here for.
But now, with this book, that’s what I’m here for.
. . .
ME: What is your relationship with your dad?
HIM: Well, we’re on basically good terms now, but I hated my father for a decent portion of my childhood. I was not really the son to him in the ways he wanted me to be. He’s kind of a jock, and he wanted, especially when he was younger, a son who could play football with him and sports, and I was this nerd who liked science, and then I was a slacker and messy, and he’s super detail-oriented and organized, and we just clashed over and over and over again.
ME: I didn’t know that. I always thought your dad—he would tease you.
HIM: Everybody loved my dad. And I love my dad now. But we had a rough go of it for the first twenty, twenty-five years.
ME: I was very lucky. I remember at one point, Amber of all people said, Well, Jeannie, you knew your dad was old and was going to die eventually.
HIM: That sounds exactly like the kind of thing she would say. That’s really hurtful.
ME: Yeah, I took his death hard, for all sorts of reasons. I’m glad you liked the childhood sections.
HIM: The other thing that leapt out at me, there’s a section where you talk about pre-grieving somebody, which I’ve done. That’s absolutely a thing. Coincidentally about my father.
ME: Oh, really?
HIM: Yeah. This would have been seven or eight years ago now. He had had some sort of minor health scare. I don’t know if you remember this, but my dad would always joke that at his funeral he wants the thirty-minute live version of “Whipping Post” played. Which my mom did not appreciate at all because of the implication.
ME: Right.
HIM: But I remember I was living with them at the time, and I was home alone for whatever reason, I don’t remember, and I put that song on, and I just cried for an hour. Which I don’t do. Just like, gut-wrenching ugly crying. And it was just, I was stuck in a—I don’t know how else to describe it except I was grieving for my not-dead father.
ME: Did you ever tell him?
HIM: No. Why would I ever tell him that?
ME: I don’t know. I was just curious. Well, you said—
HIM: We don’t have that kind of a relationship. Like, we’re friends.
ME: I’m glad that somebody else then connected with that. With the pre-grieving. Yeah, it was definitely a hard book to write.
HIM: It couldn’t not be.
ME: I don’t go back to my book. I mean, why would I look back at it again? I feel so distanced from it. I revised it so many times. So it is meaningful to know that it produced a feeling.
HIM: It’s a beautiful book.
ME: Well, I’m going to get going. I’m going to end while I just got this great compliment from you. It means a lot. And it means a lot that you’re willing to talk. I’m incredibly grateful. This is helping me, actually. I’m feeling a lot better about it. Also, I just never knew if we would talk again. It would be like breaking some social contract. Boy sexually assaults girl. Girl can’t talk to boy anymore.
HIM: That’s the way it works. Those are the rules.
ME: And so, well, this is an excuse to talk again. And so, I’m really happy. I really am. It’s good to talk to you and hear your voice, and I’m glad that you’re doing a lot better.
HIM: Yeah, I actually am. I know I was painting a sort of bleak picture there, but I’m doing pretty well, all things considered.
ME: I’m a loser and I go to bed at like ten o’clock because I get up early to write.
HIM: Well, I won’t keep you up late.
ME: But I am excited to talk again. And also, feel free to call or email me anytime. Are you on social media?
HIM: I have accounts, but I’m not active.
ME: I figured you’re not the social media type.
HIM: I’m really not.
ME: I like what Mark Twain said about the telephone. His sentiment about the telephone is sometimes how I feel about social media. He said something like, The human voice carries entirely too far as it is.
HIM: That’s a really good quote.
ME: Yeah, isn’t it?
HIM: Yeah.
ME: Well, I’m excited to talk again. Thank you. Thank you. Really, it means a lot. Well, we’ll talk again.
HIM: Anything I can do.
PART THREE: THE NEXT PHONE CALL
READER, I HAD HIM ARRESTED
The two main definitions of gravity: the natural phenomenon that draws all things with mass toward one another; extreme or alarming importance.
Gravity often is described as a force, but the general theory of relativity describes it more accurately: gravity is a consequence of the curvature of space-time caused by the uneven distribution of mass.
With Mark, what happened felt less like force and more like a consequence of an uneven distribution of power. I was passed out. He was bigger and I was smaller.
Is rape not the consequence of an uneven distribution of power?
I tell Chris: I feel bad. I’m now in the position of power. I’m taking advantage of Mark.
You can’t compare the two, Chris says. In no way can you compare the two.
Still, the power feels uncomfortable. I can scrutinize the transcript and emails, criticize his answers and observations. Take his latest email:
I was unhappy as a child, and then as a teenager, and I erected the most impregnable emotional barriers I could muster in what amounted to desperate self-preservation. I was determined that no one and nothing be able to reach the parts of me that could be hurt, ever again. My chief weapons were bitter cynicism, and a biting, cruel sarcasm, which I cultivated with great diligence. I always felt that, to some degree, you could see through most of that, to the mostly terrified teenage boy at war with himself and trying desperately to make sense of the world.
Is he writing jacket copy for the book he imagines? Also: barriers, weapons, and war? We need to use the phone.
You have him on tape admitting to the crime, Chris says. What if you handed it over to the police? You could find out how law enforcement reacts.
No, I tell him. No. I wouldn’t do that. I’d never do that. I told Mark—
Just hear me out, Chris says. A lot of these guys don’t get punished.
But this happened fourteen years ago. That’s not to say there should be a time limit, but in this instance he’s expressed remorse.
But think of what a great ending it would be.
You’re joking, I say.
Yeah, sort of.
I won’t do it.
And then, reader, Chris says, I had him arrested.
I tell my editor about what Chris said.
It’s funny, she says, but there’s truth in it too. Why wouldn’t you have Mark arrested? I mean, it makes sense why you wouldn’t. But how would you articulate your reasons?
Him getting arrested wouldn’t make me feel any better, I tell her, and I really don’t think he’d do something like this again. And also, I don’t want to put myself through the experience of reporting him. Oh, what do you think of Reader, I Had Him Arrested, as a chapter heading?
I think it carries too much shock value, she says.
Okay.
But why does it carry too much shock value? she asks. Why should the reader be shocked? Never mind. I think you should keep it. If the reader feels shocked, then that’s good.
EQUAL AND OPPOSITE
I lie awake thinking of Hannah, remembering the last time we met. It was finals week, and we were in my office, discussing all the books we’d read that semester.
I like that we didn’t read any men, she told me.
I figure you get enough of them in yo
ur other classes, I said.
I could tell she was stressed, but I didn’t think she needed the campus health center. She needed one less final to worry about.
Congratulations, I told her after our hour-long meeting.
What do you mean?
You just earned an A on the final.
As far as I was concerned, she’d aced the exam.
You don’t know how much this means to me, she said.
We made plans to meet after the holidays.
I return to my comments on an early draft of her essay. I wrote Phenomenal. I suggested cutting this line: A grown woman, now—or growing still—who has survived so much and still has so much to survive. It seemed too sentimental. But so what? Isn’t that better than what I’m doing? I can feel myself, at times in this project, showing off. Here, an example: Newton’s third law of motion says that when one body exerts a force on a second body, the second body simultaneously exerts a force equal in magnitude and opposite in direction on the first body.
But I just lay there.
I wonder if this book is exerting force back on Mark. I feel it exerting its force back on me.
I remember Mark comforting me after a physics exam: It’s just Newtonian mechanics.
YOU ALSO APOLOGIZE TO BUGS
Chris and I are on our couch, grading student essays. I encounter another essay about rape.
The student, she seems to blame herself for the rape, I tell Chris. It happened when she was in high school. Her friend’s brother did it, and I just, I don’t know.
He suggests we stop grading, do some work in the yard.
No, I tell him. I need to finish this stack of essays. I’m so behind.
He puts his arm around me.
You get the gardening stuff, I say. I’ll join you in a bit.
But instead of grading, I surprise myself by drafting a list of What Else There Is to Do Before Calling Mark Again: review Ohio sexual assault statistics from 2003, interview somebody in the FBI about the revised definition of rape, research the history of feminist law reform—
Somebody knocks at the front door. I open it, and Chris is there.